— I’ll get there and back
and just for a second
maybe play.
– Gary Snyder (“Sunday”)
The wood desk waits
beneath the bound
and unbound scraps
of poetry,
manila folders stacked
beneath unopened mail—
the ash and dust
of years anticipate
an inside job.
Shop repairs
count passing storm fronts
upon the roof,
want to work,
to be useful
after a rainy day.
So much saved,
all beckoning
can wait.
First, we must graze
these green grass hills—
maybe play.
drycrikjournal 